At first, I blamed it on the road. As in, being on the road. Not in an uber cool Kerouac kind of way. More of a semi-depressing Death of a Salesman way. Maybe something in between. I never thought I would need a Skymiles number, much less be applying enough flights to it to qualify for, like, discounts. But since April, I've found myself in Tennessee, Nevada, Utah, Alabama, D.C., Texas, Colorado and next month, Florida. Not to mention road trips - hello, live from Savannah.
The point is that it's easy to discount the calories consumed on the road - in airport terminals and from little snack bags on planes and from drive thrus and gas stations and in hotel rooms and at client dinners where you feel justified in ordering three drinks, half a cow and a piece of chocolate cake. Honestly, there's no such thing as real food when you're traveling. There is only the packaged, preserved and mass-produced or the food-coma-inducing indulgently rich fare.
After criss-crossing the country, it's little wonder that I started putting on pounds on pace with my frequent flyer miles. I'm working on the Mile High and Mile Wide Club.
But travel isn't totally to blame. Back at home, I've shunned my kitchen in favor of the Chick-fil-A not a mile from my house. I lunch, I brunch, I dine with friends - and every two or three meals, I make a restrained choice. The hummus plate. And then I counter that with how I deserve dessert in light of my reduced calorie meal. Brilliant. On top of that, I've made no attempts to prevent my egregious snacking habits, keeping cookies and chips and the like in the pantry. Nicking Gummi Bears from the dollar bin at Kroger and selecting movie-watching snacks to reward myself for choosing the Red Box over the actual pricey theater.
A few recent pictures, taken from the most unflattering side view, revealed my alarmingly inflated form. The unbecomingly rounding belly. The fleshy arms. The fat that's starting to gather around my face. I've assumed an overall doughy appearance - paunchy, soft, decadent. Pokable.
I probably weigh as much now as I ever have - I'm rather afraid of the scales, too horrified to know what I've done to myself. And as much as there's vanity, and believe me, there is, because, I'm being honest here. But there's also a great deal of shame in having let it go this far. The shame of failing to possess the willpower to shut my mouth. The shame of letting the depression about life to creep up on me and fuel this sorry sad appetite for destruction. Food won't make me happy - and whatever joy I normally take in eating good food is just perverted by this abuse. Even as I finished off the Double Stuf Oreos the other night, I wanted to cry. Because all that creamy goodness was headed straight for my already dimpled thighs. And because, well, I know better. I know I don't want to be on this one-way street to The Biggest Loser.
It's so much easier to remain prostrate under mounds of calories. To consume my feelings rather than deal with them. To viciously hate every new bulge while masochistically stuffing my face. But underneath all those calories and all that dissatisfaction, there's a part of me that is starting to claw against that soft fatty self and demand that we put an end to this.
So I finished the bag of Gummi Bears. And the Double Stuf Oreos. I bought some carrots. I bought some hummus. I'm keeping apples in the fridge. I'm on the road right now...I had McDonald's, and I know tomorrow is going to be some sort of artery-blowing dinner affair. I'm not going to make any ultimatums - no promises to myself that I can't keep. I'm not going to start some crash diet where I deny myself sugar and carbs and joy. But I am going to try to unshackle myself from helplessness...from cutting myself so much slack that I don't even participate in the choice. I'm going to reconnect that line between my mouth and my brain that The Sadsies unplugged.
And let's be honest: I want to be slimmer. I want my clothes to fit. I want to be more attractive for all the superficial reasons, to be one of the beautiful people. But as much as that, I want to respect myself enough not to let the heaviness in my heart be the heaviness on my hips.
Image via Christopher Boffoli's Disparity series
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Let's Be Honest
The spiral started, well, how spirals start. At an infinitesimal point behind you that's hardly discernible once you recognize the endlessly loping curvature that looms above you. Round and round and round until the circular shape with its no-end-and-no-beginning ways keeps you from even trying to recall its origin.
That's me, now. Looking back at that spiral, not even trying to fathom how I got to this place at the bottom. And let's be honest - for awhile, I've been slipping and sliding down the spiral with reckless abandon. Acting like I was powerless against the sloping gravity of it all. Like an impertinent child sailing down the banister, I picked up terrible habits with an alacrity that was mind-blowing. The eating. The shopping. The sleeping. The self-deprecation. The self-loathing. The perpetual negativity.
That's me, now. Finally plopped rather decidedly on my arse at the bottom. My first impulse is to offer excuses. But I've been here before, and excuses get me nowhere. So I'm trying something new. In light of my present position, in light of the recognition of my free will to be somewhere besides here, I'm going to explore my choices with all honesty. I'm going to tell the whole truth - the whole ugly truth - and hopefully find my way away from the ugly something less hideous...something tolerable...something that resembles the fragile beauty of hope...
Image via Randall C. Page
